Unwilling Captivation
by YourFairyGodfather
Summary: “We’re having a long overdue chat,” Kurt informed him, “a desperately needed conversation between friends.” Kurt wants to talk about Tina. Artie doesn't want to hear it. Sometimes, a little kidnapping goes a long way.
1. Chapter 1

The first of two parts; can be read as a companion piece to "Sympathy From the Devil", but also works just fine on it's own.

I still haven't bought that shirt, so I still don't own anything. Someday…

"We need to talk."

Artie snapped the buckle on his instrument case and looked up. Kurt stood in front of him; manicured hands on his hips and one leg turned out to the side, looking for all the world as if he had posed specifically for the conversation. Which, Artie thought, he probably had. "Sure," he said. "Make it quick though, I've got to get going. What's up?" Kurt shook his head. "Oh no, Mister Rogers. You don't want to have this talk in here." Kurt scooped up Artie's bag and hung it off of one of the wheelchair's handles. "Let's go."

And before Artie could protest, Kurt was wheeling him out the door.

Not that he didn't try. "What are you doing?" Artie screeched indignantly. He twisted his body awkwardly to look back at Kurt, who was pursing his lips disapprovingly. "We're having a long overdue chat," Kurt informed him, "a desperately needed conversation between friends." Artie's jaw dropped. "F-Friends?" he sputtered. What the… "You're kidnapping me! What kind of a friend does that?" Kurt rolled his eyes skyward and sighed dramatically. "Will you cool it with the amateur theatrics, Joan Crawford?" he asked in a long-suffering tone. A little hypocritically, in Artie's opinion, since only one of them was wearing a high-necked women's blouse and white headband, and it certainly wasn't Artie.

This was ridiculous. As Kurt pushed his chair around the corner, Artie looked frantically down back down the hall toward the choir room, hoping to spot someone who could come to his rescue and put an end to this stupidity. No one. "It wouldn't have worked," Kurt said smugly. "Everyone is prepared to ignore any screaming or cries for help they might hear. Mercedes has been not-so-discreetly spreading the rumor that we intended to kidnap you after Glee and force you to burn all of your suspenders and geriatric-wear. And in fact," he continued, lighting up, "we may do that later, if we have time. I have a sacrificial fire laid out in Dad's barbeque pit, ready to be lit for just such an occasion." His eyes sparkled with a maniacal fervor that was starting to make Artie distinctly uneasy. "Fortunately for you, however, your Early Bird Special wardrobe is not the subject of today's intervention." Artie, while used to hearing Kurt's slurs on his clothing preferences at least half a dozen times a day, was really starting to get annoyed. "Fine," he said irritably. "What did you want to talk about that was so important, you needed to _abduct me_, which by the way is a felony?"

"Tina," Kurt answered simply.

Artie felt his stomach drop. "No. Oh no. We are not having this conversation," he said, his tight voice barely concealing his sudden anger. How dare he. How dare he wheel him out of rehearsal and bring her up, when he had to know… Kurt appeared unfazed. "Your participation in this conversation is entirely optional," he conceded loftily, examining his nails as he spoke. "However, given that I'm perfectly capable of holding you hostage until you've at least heard what I have to say, I'd advise your cooperation in this matter."

This time, Artie didn't even try to contain the rage that rushed over him. "That's completely unfair!" he ranted, seething. "What the hell is your problem? Just because you can physically stop the cripple from leaving, that makes it okay? Why is it all right to kidnap me and not anyone else, just because I'm not able to fight back? You wouldn't even think of trying to physically restrain someone else." He glowered at Kurt. "I would have thought, that out of anyone, you would be the one to understand that just because you can push someone around doesn't mean its right."

Kurt blinked, slowly. "I'll admit you are somewhat of an easier target than most," he said carefully. "But the only difference that makes is that I don't have to get creative to stop you from leaving." His eyes locked with Artie's, taking on a steely look that Artie had only seen him possess a few times. "But if I really thought one of my friends desperately needed to hear something they didn't want to hear, you can bet that seriously unattractive sweater vest you're wearing that I would find a way to make them listen." The intensity in Kurt's expression faded as he gave Artie a small, slightly sad smile. "And you have a point. But somehow, I think your 'roid rage was only partially directed at me."

Artie sighed. Now that the initial wave of anger and resentment had passed, it was quickly being replaced with other emotions. Oh, he was still angry. Pissed, even. But he was also embarrassed for lashing out at Kurt, who was at least well intentioned, if overbearing and bossy. He was frustrated, because he knew Kurt was right—he was an easy target. It didn't matter what he did, even his little sister could (and frequently did) force him to stay or go anywhere simply by pushing him. He was ashamed that that truth had gotten him locked in many a port-a-potty, helpless until someone came along to let him out. He despised feeling helpless. At least Kurt could pull himself out of the dumpster.

It all came back to the stupid chair. If he could just walk again, people wouldn't be able to lock him into places he couldn't escape from, or just assume it was okay to haul him wherever. Only Tina was allowed to do that. And Tina—

If he could just walk again, he could be the man that Tina wanted.

Artie swallowed thickly, pushing that thought back. "I apologize for yelling," he told Kurt, his composure returned. "And I'm leaving. I don't want to have this conversation, and I really don't think that it's any of your business." Artie lifted his parking brake and began to roll away.

"Have you even looked at her in the past two weeks?" Kurt called after him. Artie stopped moving, slowly rolling to a stop but refusing to turn around. "Of course I have," he spat. How could he not? He was mad at her, and hurt by her, and betrayed and confused and ripped apart by her. Not looking at her would be like not looking at a car wreck as you drove by. You knew if was awful, you knew you shouldn't look, but you couldn't stop your neck from craning to see.

"I mean really look," Kurt pressed. "Because she looks like crap, Wheels. And not just by my admittedly harsh standards. Anyone can tell she's a mess. Her makeup is, God knows how this is even possible, even sloppier than usual. She's withdrawn, she's paler, she's lost at least eight pounds, and while I'd normally be celebrating the fact that her dropping two dress sizes opens up a whole new world of designer fashion I can fit her into, the victory dance is a bit hollow when I know it's because she's not eating. Mercedes and I have tried everything. Movies, ice cream, manicures; I even offered to redye her streaks in whatever abhorrent shade her seriously misguided little heart desired." Kurt shuddered at the memory.

"And you know what the worst part is?" he asked. "She just goes with it. She'll go to the mall with us, she'll sit on the couch through movie after movie, she'll hold still while we paint and dye and moisturize. But she's not there. There's no spark left. It's like everything that makes Tina _Tina_ has just flown the cuckoo's nest and left behind this compliant little doll who doesn't care."

Artie hadn't noticed Kurt's voice coming closer until the boy was standing right next to him, handing him a handkerchief to dry the tears that were cascading freely down his cheeks. He took the cloth halfheartedly, not trusting himself to speak. How…

How on earth had things gotten this bad? How on earth had things gotten this bad without him even noticing? He knew everything about Tina. He knew that she pretended to take notes in English class, but would really draw or do Sudoku puzzles in her notebook instead. He knew that _Home Alone_ had scared the crap out of her in the fifth grade since she really was home alone so much, and that she had slept within arms reach of a baseball bat ever since. He knew that she had little scars all over her left hand from picking up the shards of a broken china plate, smashed against the kitchen wall in a fit of anger when her parents had extended yet another business trip. He knew that her laughter was the most amazing sound in the world, and that when she cried, it made him want to wrap her up inside himself to keep her safe from the world.

He knew that he was in love with her.

He knew that the real reason her lie had upset him _so much_ was that for a split second, it made him think that maybe he didn't really know her at all.

Shit.

"You know, when I was six, all I wanted for my birthday was a life size Barbie doll to play with," Kurt confided, patting Artie's shoulder as Artie wiped his eyes. "Now that I have one, I'm starting to realize that the whole concept is kind of creepy. Makes me glad that I got a tool kit and a curling iron instead." Artie's response was strangled, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Kurt gave his shoulder one final pat before giving his wheelchair a shove. "I won't tell you what to do, as you've made your position on that quite clear," he said, his usual demeanor back in place as he carefully fixed his hair. "I just thought you should know."

Artie began rolling himself away from Kurt, toward the front door. Just as he was about to turn the corner, he stopped and looked back. "Thanks," he said. "Not cool, but…thanks." Kurt smiled back, knowingly. "I live to serve. Speaking of which, my bonfire offer is a standing invitation. Just give me a few hours notice, would you? I need to steal that technicolor monstrosity that is Mercedes' zebra zip-up for kindling."

Artie nodded and turned the corner.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2 of 2 for this story; can be read along with "Sympathy From the Devil" but stands well enough on it's own.

First off, thank you all: I was completely blown away by the positive feedback and kind reviews this story has gotten so far. Each response made me smile, and I certainly appreciate the welcome

Still no ownership, but I have a birthday in a couple of months, so perhaps one day.

* * *

The ramp was gone.

Artie was sitting in front of Tina's front porch, eyeing the three steps leading up to the front door. When Tina's parents were in town, the two of them mostly hung out at his house. Whenever they were gone, however, Tina would set up the collapsible ramp on the front steps that made it easier for him to get in and out of her not-particularly-handicap-accessible house. Artie had no idea where it had come from; it had just appeared one day. Tina hadn't said anything about it as they approached the house, just kept talking about how her dad was gonna k-k-kill her if he sssaw the stain on the carp-p-pet, and did he thhhink bleach would w-work on the green f-fabric, and if she had noticed that his smile that day was warmer and brighter and more beautiful than she had ever seen it, well, she hadn't mentioned that either.

But the ramp was gone, and the clouds in the darkening sky were a deep pearl grey and heavy with the threat of rain. Artie had been sitting there, watching the front door for over half an hour as the sun sunk lower toward the horizon. Adrenaline and momentum had gotten him this far, but the sight of the unwelcoming porch had knocked the wind out of his lungs. And so he sat there.

A stray raindrop hit his shoulder, the first of what promised to be several if he didn't do something. Artie wavered. He could go home, pretend he was never here. Talk to her tomorrow at school, or at Glee. Or maybe not at all. Go on with his life without her.

Because that had been working out so well so far.

He had to stay. He had to stay, had to talk to her. Even if the thought of talking to her made him feel vaguely ill with apprehension. The only problem—well okay, the first of a distinctly worrying number of problems, was that he couldn't reach the doorbell from the base of the steps. He could call her cell, but he didn't know if he could take it if she refused to answer. He could call the house phone, so that even if she ignored his call, she'd be forced to listen as the answering machine automatically projected his message through the house. But what if she heard his voice, knew he was there, and didn't answer? That would be even worse than her refusing his call. He was sure he could convince her to at least talk to him if she answered the door and saw him in person, but he couldn't get up the stupid steps to ring the stupid doorbell. Sighing in frustration, he rubbed a hand through his hair. Another raindrop landed on his wrist.

Desperate measures. Artie wheeled his chair back several feet and tightened the straps on his gloves. Before the ramp had appeared, Artie would get up to the front door of Tina's house by using a running start and a well-timed pull on the wheels of his chair. He'd been practicing his jumps for years, and could get some serious height under the right conditions. His accuracy still left something to be desired, though, and it usually took him a few tries and a couple of scrapes before he made it to the welcome mat. It was not his favorite way to get anywhere, and he was definitely a little out of practice, but he'd been sitting, doing nothing, for far too long. Time to man up.

Steeling himself, Artie rolled as quickly as he could toward the porch. 3…2…1—Artie yanked as hard as he could, and the chair sailed through the air, landing precariously on the top step. Frantically, Artie threw his weight forward before the chair could roll back down the steps.

_Crack!_

Well, it had sort of worked. The chair had stayed on the porch, but Artie had not stayed in the chair—the force he had used to keep from falling backwards had propelled him headfirst into the front door. Wincing, Artie pulled himself back into his seat, right as the door was opening.

"Artie?"

Tina had clearly heard the sound of his crash and come running. "Oh my God, are you okay?" She leaned in and pushed his hair back, startling Artie so much that he nearly lost his balance and toppled over. "I'm fine," he said, a little more harshly than he had intended. He cringed as she jerked her hand away at the sound of his tone. Crap. He didn't mean to sound mean, it was just her sudden proximity, the smell of her hair and touch of her skin, all after two weeks of avoiding her, well…crap. This was not going well.

"Um, come in," Tina said softly, staring at her feet. "I'll get you a bandaid. Your—your head is…" she looked up and gestured halfheartedly to Artie's forehead. Artie stripped off his gloves and touched his hairline; his fingers came away damp with blood. "Oh," he said, genuinely surprised. "Oh, right. Um, ok." Tina disappeared inside the house. _Um, ok?_ Did that blow to the head knock out his articulatory skills, or did he always sound this stupid? Deciding he didn't want to know either way, Artie pushed himself over the entrance to the house and wheeled himself down the front hall.

When he reached the kitchen, Artie stopped in shock. The room was a complete disaster—like, mob of football players hell-bent on destruction level disaster. Half of the cupboards were open, the items they held either knocked over or strewn about on the counters. The table and nearby floor were littered with crumpled sheets of paper and notebooks with pages haphazardly torn out. Some sort of purple liquid--paint? juice?—was dripping onto the floor from an overturned bottle on the counter. The trashcan was overflowing, and upon closer inspection, Artie could see that it was filled with plates—actual, reusable dinner plates—complete with meals still on them.

"Sorry it's such a mess." Tina's voice made him jump in his seat; he hadn't realized she was behind him. She handed him a bandaid. "I wasn't…I mean—I'll have to clean it before my parents get back." Artie pressed the bandaid to his cut and threw out the wrapper, trying not to look at the trash can as he did it. "When are they coming back?" he asked. Small talk. Small talk was good. Awkward, but good. "Thursday," she said. "They've been in Hong Kong since the 7th."

Artie looked around the kitchen again. It was Tuesday. Privately, he doubted her ability to put it all back together in just two days—it looked like a before photo in one of those home makeover shows that his mom pretended to hate but secretly TiVo-ed. And then the other part of what she had said sunk in.

"Wait. The 7th? You've been here by yourself for over three weeks?" Tina wrapped her arms around her torso. "They're busy," she told him, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her tone. "I mean, yeah, it's longer than usual, but it's a busy time of year for them, and they work really hard, and…" Her voice died out, as she determinedly looked anywhere but where Artie sat, parked on top of the crumpled papers on the floor.

Artie wanted to cry looking at her. He could see what Kurt had been trying to tell him. Tina was visibly diminished, somehow: smaller, paler, less confident. More than that, though, was the way her hands twitched nervously, uselessly by her sides as she stood there; the way her posture was more uneasy and less, well, less _Tina_, than usual. The Tina he knew had presence, filled the space she was in with her warmth and attitude. This Tina looked like a scared, tired little girl, slightly out of place even in her own house.

"Why didn't--" the question died on his lips. "Why didn't I call you?" Tina supplied, reading his mind as well as she had ever done. Her small, ironic smile didn't reach her eyes. "I figured you didn't want me to." Artie couldn't look away from those eyes. They were so unfamiliar. Or was it the expression in them that he didn't recognize, a lifelessness he had never seen there before? It broke his heart. "Tee," he insisted, voice strained with emotion, "you had to know it would have been okay to call if you needed me. You shouldn't have had to stay here all alone. I would have come."

"How?" The sudden harshness of her tone, the sudden terrifying blaze to her eyes, jolted him more than anything else that the long, emotional day had thrown at him. "How was I supposed to know that?" she pressed. "You _left_, Artie. You wouldn't let me explain, you wouldn't let me apologize, you just left. Like whatever I thought or felt didn't matter." She took a deep breath before continuing, pacing the floor in front of him.

"Do you know what the last two weeks have been like without you? They've been horrible. They've been awful, and not only because I've felt so guilty for hurting you, but because I've been so _alone_. You wouldn't talk to me or smile at me; you wouldn't even look at me. And everyone's been trying to just snap me out of it. Kurt and Mercedes have been going crazy trying to get me to do anything. Brittany keeps giving me cookies and patting my head like I'm five. Even Puck was sort of nice to me one time. Puck, Artie!" As abruptly as she had started, Tina stopped pacing.

"And none of it even mattered. Because they're not you. I could have the whole world against me and it wouldn't matter, as long as you were on my side. But you left."

Tina's eyes dropped from his, and all of the fire that she'd had while yelling at him drained out of her. She sat down at the kitchen table, idly tracing a finger across the wood grain. "I'm sorry I yelled, and I'm sorry I lied. I'm so, so sorry, Artie. I get that you're mad, and I understand that. I screwed up. But," she finished, the tears she had yet to shed creeping into her voice, "so did you. And I think I get to be angry too."

Artie had never really understood the phrase 'deafening silence' before, but he was really starting to get it now. Tina's speech hung between them, and in its wake everything else seemed horribly, unbearable loud—the dripping faucet in the sink, the rain splattering the windows. The sound of Tina's finger on the table as she traced the same pattern over and over and over.

He had no idea what to say. She was right. He knew she was right. And she was wrong, but so was he. So was everything. Tina was sitting three feet in front of him, but she had never seemed so completely unapproachable. For the first time in their entire friendship, Artie had no idea how to reach her in any way that mattered. So he said the first thing that came to his mind.

"Puck was nice to you?"

Tina let out a strangled, mirthless laugh. "I think the crying freaked him out a little. Don't tell him I told you, though. I hate onion dip, and I'm pretty sure he'd go through with his threat." Artie had no idea what she was talking about, so he brushed it aside, wheeling closer to where she sat. "Tee, I…" He stopped. He needed to say something. How many times over the past couple of weeks had he imagined talking to her, telling her exactly what he felt? How was it that the words had come so easy when she wasn't really there, but now nothing he could think of was the right thing to say?

Maybe because every time he had talked to her in his imagination, it was in anger. And Artie didn't feel anger anymore, not really. Just sadness, and loneliness, and…

Guilt.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, realizing with surprise that the words felt exactly right in that moment. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn't call me. I'm…I was so hurt, and I couldn't get past it. But you're right. I screwed up too. And I'm sorry. You mean more to me than anyone, and I should have known that when it mattered. So I'm sorry."

He turned away from her as tears began silently pouring down her cheeks. He rolled himself away from her while he still could, fighting the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and dry her face. He needed to touch her, hold her, so badly. But she was right. He had failed her when she needed him. And now, he was the one who had to wait for forgiveness.

Artie opened the front door. The raindrops that were few and far between earlier were now pounding down in heavy sheets. His house was three blocks away; he'd be a drowned rat before he reached the end of the driveway.

"You shouldn't go out in that."

Tina was standing in the doorway.

Artie swallowed thickly. "I'll call my dad for a ride, if that's okay." Slowly, Tina approached him, wiping her tears on her sleeve and sitting on the staircase so that she was at his level. "You could stay here if you want." Their eyes met. They still weren't the eyes he knew so well, but they were less haunted, frightening than before. Mesmerizing. "Are you sure?" he asked. Her eyes remained fixed on his as slowly, gently, she took his hand in hers. "Stay," she repeated.

Artie changed his mind. _That_ was the most amazing, beautiful sound in the world.

* * *

Don't try the wheelchair stunt at home, kids. It's about as dangerous and painful as it sounds.


End file.
